


Ivory Sunsets

by Los_Gwilwileth



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Consensual Blood Drinking, IDK though but probably, Might be a bit gorey, No Slash, Post-War of the Ring, That's for the Mirkwood elves only though, The rating is bc of blood, Vampire!Legolas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4031683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Los_Gwilwileth/pseuds/Los_Gwilwileth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on the Vampire!Legolas fic.<br/>After the War of the Ring, all is calm in Gondor. Aragorn and Arwen are living in happiness. Crops are bountiful, birds are singing, flowers are blooming. All is peaceful.</p><p>Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ivory Sunsets

He doesn't expect it when Aragorn finds them in the garden.

He doesn't expect it when Aragorn backhands him across the face.

He doesn't expect the tears running down Aragorn's face as he leads Arwen away.

He supposes that Aragorn is right, though. When you find your best friend with his mouth latched onto your wife's neck, anger is the only path you wish to walk. 

He still holds hope though. Arwen will tell him. Arwen, his friend, his friend who willingly gave her blood for him to feed.

It must be agony for her, the pain of his fangs piercing the tender, milk-white skin of her throat, his tongue lapping greedily at the gush of crimson fluid. But she does not show it. Arwen had never cried out, not once in all the times he has fed from her. She is a strong woman, a worthy queen, a true leader for the people of Gondor.

The elves never speak of the Mirkwood breed. But when they come to Rivendell, they part silently, obediently, offering food in every subtle movement of neck, chest and hip. They are gone the next day, ink still drying on parchment and the phantoms of bloody faces lurking behind pillars. 

Rivendell is always silent on those days, as the Lord of the House contemplates the price of peace for a king's teeth in his veins and blond hair draping across his shoulders to form a parody of their relationship, two different kinds mingling but always remaining separate.

Arwen was different, though, but fitting in a sense. 

It was an almost poetic parody.

A King drinking from a Lord and a Prince drinking from a Lady.  
Father and son drinking drinking from father and daughter.  
Two bloodlines - one of predator, the other prey. 

Arwen offered herself freely, shielding her brothers from the tax of the Mirkwood elves. Staunch and afraid, they met for the first time in a frosted alcove of the gardens, and he held her in his arms as her blood - her blood, ruby-red and sweeter than the finest Dorwinion wine- flowed down his throat.

They did not speak.  
Nor did they the second time they met. Or the third.  
The forth time, he thanked her, and she left as silently as she had all those other times.  
On the fifth, he told her his story. She was as wooden and quiet as ever.  
The sixth time, he wondered if he was bleeding a ghost dry, her form so silent and delicate that his fangs could pierce air and he would never know if her skin held any trace of warmth.  
The seventh time, she told him her story.

They had been friends ever since.

Now it was Aragorn who was silent. He caught the King of Gondor burning a garment the very night he had found them together among the blossoming flowers, and he realised that it was the dress that Arwen had been wearing, a crimson stain marring the soft violet fabric. But Aragorn had driven his presence away, washing the plague of his former friend away with a cloud of simpering courtiers and a hand grasping the arm of his wife, who relented to being a puppet as her husband pulled the strings, by day forced to dance for the court and populace, relegated to a child's toy in his bed at night.

A week later, Aragorn was still numb to the world, a puppet king and his puppet wife sitting alone on an empty stage.

A week later, there was a strange sparkle in the eyes of a blond-haired elf, witnessed only by a dwarf who thought nothing of the fires that burned in those blue orbs.

A week later, everything changed.

A week later, the palace awoke to screams.

The maid lay curled up on the cold stone floors of the throne room, her hands covering her eyes as her body was wracked by violet tremors, the soft sound of her weeping the only break in the silence.

Every guard in the room had been decapitated and propped against the walls, their severed heads cradled in their hands.

The beheaded men formed a double row leading to the platform on which sat the thrones of the king and queen.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir and King of the Reunited Kingdom, stared straight ahead with glassy eyes like a child's hand-puppet, the white gleam of his spine just visible through the bloody wreck of his throat, tendons hanging loose like ragged threads on a much-loved toy.

His hand was entwined with his wife's.

Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar, Queen of the Reunited Kingdom, sat in repose on her throne with her eyes still wide with fear, glazed over like those of a fresh-killed deer. Her throat was likewise turned into a mangled, gaping cavern, a puppet that could no longer dance, discarded without thought.

Her belly was sliced open and her entrails were draped across her lap, hands resting atop the grey pile of offal.

In her palms was the tiny body of her son, pale and still, clutched in her hands like a vile treasure.

**Author's Note:**

> Arwen is about two months pregnant in this fic.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> (Or commenting, leaving a kudo etc.)


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